The Fence That Hums

I landed a decent job as a boundary rider on a cattle station deep in the Tanami Desert, a place so remote that the nearest town is a two-day drive across rutted red dirt. The station itself, named ‘Ngarra Downs’, was a relic from the 1870s, a cluster of corrugated iron sheds huddled under a sky so big it felt like a weight. My job was to maintain the Dingo Fence and the Rabbit Fence, which stretched for hundreds of miles, cutting through spinifex and mulga, and to check the bores and dams. I was alone most days, just me and my battered ute, with the sun scorching the horizon and the silence so thick you could chew it.

I worked with a few local Indigenous blokes, the Kukatja and Warlpiri men from nearby communities. They were quiet, watchful, but they knew the land. On my first week, old Uncle Merv, a wiry elder with a face like cracked leather, stopped me as I was about to drive off. He pointed at a crooked tree near the main gate. ‘You see that tree?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘That tree is where the fence sings,’ he said. ‘Where the wire hums at night, that’s where the old things are listening. You don’t want to be there after dark.’ I laughed, slapped him on the shoulder, and told him I’d handle it. He just shook his head and walked away.

For a month, everything was routine. I’d wake before sunrise, brew a billy of tea, and set off along the fence line. The fence was a strange beast—a double line of wire and posts, with rabbit-proof mesh at the bottom and barbed wire on top. It ran north to south, a man-made scar across a landscape that had never known sharp edges. I’d check for breaks, patch them with wire and staples, and mark my map. The cattle, a hardy breed of Brahmans, were scattered, and the kangaroos would watch me from a distance, as if I was intruding on their domain.

But the first sign that something was wrong came on a humid afternoon, when the air pressed down like a blanket. I was near a stretch of fence that crossed a dry creek bed, where the posts were older, greyed and warped. As I idled the engine to listen for any unusual sounds, I heard it—a low, persistent hum, like a transformer or a distant generator. But there was no power for miles. I got out, walked along the fence, and touched the wire. It vibrated, faintly, as if it were alive. I pulled my hand back, and the hum stopped. I chalked it up to the heat playing tricks on my mind.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling. My quarters were a small tin shed with a camp bed and a kerosene lamp. I lay awake, listening to the wind, and I swear I heard that hum again, coming from the direction of the fence, even though my hut was a good five miles away. I got up, opened the door, and the sound was clear—a deep, resonant tone that seemed to come from the ground itself. I grabbed my flashlight and walked out to the fence line, a hundred yards from the hut. The wire was glowing, not brightly, but with a faint blue-green luminescence, like the afterglow of a lightning strike. I watched, frozen, as the glow pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. Then, a shape moved beyond the fence—a tall, elongated silhouette that didn’t match any animal I knew. It swayed, then dissolved into the dark. I ran back to my hut, locked the door, and didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I told Uncle Merv about it. His face went tight. ‘You felt it?’ he said. ‘The old people say that fence was built on a songline. The wire cuts through the land, and the humming is the land weeping. The things that come are not from this world. They are from the time before, when the earth was soft.’ I tried to dismiss it, but he was adamant. ‘You must not go back there at night,’ he said. ‘And if the fence hums, you must not listen.’ But I had a job to do, and I couldn’t avoid that stretch forever.

Over the following weeks, the hum became more frequent. I started to hear it during the day, a faint buzz that made the hairs on my arm stand up. I noticed that the cattle avoided certain sections of the fence, bunching up on the other side, as if something was pushing them away. And the kangaroos—they were gone. The mob that used to share the dam with the cattle had vanished. The land grew quieter, except for the hum. I found myself spending more time near that old creek, trying to unravel the mystery. I’d walk along the fence, feeling the vibration under my boots, and I’d see those shapes in the corner of my eye—tall, thin, motionless, watching. Whenever I turned to look, they were gone.

One evening, as dusk painted the sky in bruised purples and reds, I was making my final checks on the fence. I had stopped at a gate that crossed a dirt track, and I noticed something odd: the wire was tangled into a crude knot, like a child’s attempt to tie a bow. I got out to fix it, and as I touched the wire, that hum exploded in my ears. The fence began to shake, and the ground beneath me trembled. I looked up and saw them—a line of shapes marching along the fence, coming toward me. They were made of shadow and dust, with long arms that brushed the ground, and they made a sound like dry leaves skittering. I froze. They passed through the fence like water through a sieve, and one of them paused, turned, and looked at me with hollow eyes. It opened a mouth that was toothless and black, and spoke a single word: ‘Mine.’

I bolted. I drove back to the station house, crashing through the dark, and burst into the kitchen where the manager was having his dinner. I was shaking, telling him what I saw. He listened calmly, then said, ‘Ah, you’ve met the fence walkers. Don’t worry, they’re harmless. They just patrol the boundary.’ But his eyes didn’t meet mine. I knew he was lying. I knew something was wrong.

That night, I stayed in the main house, with a rifle by my bed. But the hum was everywhere, a constant pressure in my skull. I heard scratching on the tin roof, and then a voice, soft and old, humming a tune I’d never heard. It was the same hum from the fence, but now it was a melody, a lullaby. I covered my ears, but it seeped through. The melody was seductive, pulling at me. I felt my will draining, and I started walking toward the door. My hand was on the handle when I heard Uncle Merv’s voice: ‘Do not open the door. Sing back. Sing the country.’ I didn’t know the words, but I remembered a song my grandmother used to sing, a silly nursery rhyme. I started to hum it, off-key, and the melody from outside faltered. The pressure eased.

The next day, I intended to quit, to leave the station for good. But as I packed, I realized I couldn’t. The hum was in my head, a persistent call. I knew that if I left, it would follow me. The only way to be free was to understand it. So I went back to that stretch of fence, determined to face it. I walked along the wire, humming the nursery rhyme, and the hum became a harmony. I felt a presence beside me, a tall shadow, and it walked with me. It didn’t harm me; it just accompanied me. As we walked, I saw the fence differently—not as a barrier, but as a scar on the land, a wound that had been left to fester. The shadow spoke to me in a voice that was like the crackle of fire: ‘You are a rider of the fence. You must learn to ride the song.’

I don’t know how long I walked, but when I came back to my senses, the sun was setting, and I was at the old creek bed. The fence there was glowing softly, and the hum was a gentle thrum. The shadows were gone. I felt a calmness, a strange peace. I knew then that I had made a pact. I would stay as boundary rider, but my duty was no longer to keep the fences intact—it was to tend to the song, to walk the line and keep the hum alive. Because if the hum stopped, the shadows would be released, and the land would be lost. I sent a letter to my old life, telling them I was staying. They likely thought I’d gone mad. Maybe I had. But as I drove back to my hut that night, with the hum following me like a faithful dog, I knew one thing: the fence was not a barrier; it was a leash. And I was now the one holding it.